


The Front and the Man

by Jet44



Category: White Collar
Genre: Building trust, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s01e13 Front Man, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-10 19:47:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2037744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jet44/pseuds/Jet44
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal is doggedly okay after the events of Front Man, and there's something very wrong with that. Peter tries to find and mend some of the broken and bruised pieces in his friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Carved out of Stone

Neal was being interviewed by SA Ritter from Missing Persons, and Peter’s anger was building by the second.

Because Neal was recounting with unflinching polite precision, having been beaten and shocked in a van by his mortal enemy. There was no trace of self-pity, and very little of his usual grandstanding. He was being - well, professional.

He wasn’t rattled. The only thing he’d shown even a pang of worry about was Peter chewing him out for leaving the scene without his anklet.

 _So?_ Peter challenged himself. _If it were you, would you be sitting there looking shell-shocked and complaining about it? Of course not. Don’t make Neal out to be a fragile wimp just because he dresses like an insecure cartoon and complains about bad coffee_.

But Peter knew if he’d been betrayed the way Neal had, he’d be furious. It was Neal’s lack of anger that brought Peter close to rage. Not at his friend, but at the totality of circumstances that made him this accepting.

Ritter handed Peter a camera. “Neal would probably be more comfortable having you photograph the injuries.”

“Neal doesn’t care,” said Neal, rolling his eyes. “He also would like to remind you that he is, in fact, present in the room.”

“Go ahead, rub my nose in it,” muttered Peter under his breath as he took the camera from Ritter.

Neal plainly thought he hid the flicker of resigned annoyance that flashed across his face when he stood and removed his shirt. The exaggerated statuesque pose he struck got both the agents grinning.

He also thought he hid the tiny relaxation of his shoulders when Ritter left the room out of respect for his privacy.

“What was that you said?” asked Neal.

“Nothing. Hold still and _try_ not to look like you’re trying to recreate a Michelangelo in living form,” said Peter.

Peter wasn’t thrilled about this either. The last time he’d had to photograph injuries on a crime victim had been a brief and sickening stint in Violent Crimes early in his career.

Bruise. Click. Electrical burn. Click. Another bruise. Turn so the light illuminates it. Click.

There was something dehumanizing about reducing a living, breathing human being to evidence. Neal’s robotic cooperation with Peter’s requests to show him the various injuries made Peter acutely aware of how many times he must have been stripped and cavity searched. Probably with the same self-aware humor that held him posing as David right now with an arch grin on his face.

Peter finished and set the camera down. “All done, Neal. Thanks,” he said, hoping his soft tone of voice would convey all he wanted to say.

 _You aren’t just evidence. You aren’t just a crime victim, or a prisoner, or a tool in someone’s belt._

Neal went out of his way to catch Peter’s eye. “I always did wanna take up modeling. Free Versace? I’m in.”

“Neal.”

“You should have more fun in life, Peter,” said Neal, tossing his shirt back on.

“Modeling Versace? I think not,” said Peter with feigned indignation. “Armani all the way.” He caught himself grinning, and in the throes of a familiar feeling. Affection and admiration for this irrepressible human being who took responsibility for cheering _him_ up instead of moping.

Neal called Ritter back in with such a cheerful bounce to his step that Peter almost believed it. It was so easy to ignore that there was something broken in Neal Caffrey. It allowed a brilliant man to make decisions certain to harm him. It looked calmly at Peter in an empty apartment and accepted that he was going to have to do this whole ‘going to prison for four years’ thing all over again.

It wasn’t lack of self-esteem; Neal esteemed himself way the hell too much. In Neal’s ideal world, the world revolved around Neal. But regardless, something was broken, because to him, this was normal.

“So Agent Rice didn’t discuss this with you at all beforehand?” asked Ritter.

“No.”

“Were you wearing any type of transmitter, or have any other means of contacting her?”

“No.”

“Were you given any briefing, or instructions at all?” 

“No. It doesn’t exactly take a ten-point briefing and an instruction manual to get kidnapped,” said Neal with a wry grin.

Until that broken thing was fixed, Neal would never be reformed. It was possible that this was a rare opportunity to access it, because for once it wasn’t Neal’s fault. The blame could be placed squarely elsewhere.

Neal would dismiss himself politely when all the paperwork was done, and show up at work smiling tomorrow. He wouldn’t show any weakness.

He’d been betrayed by an FBI agent, kidnapped, punched, shocked....anyone short of a hardened soldier or a career violent criminal would be affected by that, but Neal didn’t have enough trust in the FBI to show it. There was always going to be the lurking threat in his mind, and unfortunately not an invalid one: If he couldn’t handle FBI work, he would go back to prison. Another place where it didn’t do to display vulnerability.

 

**LATER THAT NIGHT**

 

Peter knocked on the door of Neal’s apartment, and held up a large pizza box and a sack of snacks. He hadn’t seen his CI eat a thing since before the kidnapping.

Something dulled in Neal’s eyes. He wasn’t happy to see Peter. He sighed. “Okay, let me have it.”

“What?”

Neal’s eyes slid downwards, to the anklet. “I said, what’ll you have? To drink?”

“No, you didn’t. You thought I was here to chew you out about ‘forgetting’ your anklet? I already did that.”

“Then why are you here?” Neal’s expression was less friendly than usual, and his cynical side was on full display. _You’re here because you want something from me, or want to reprimand me. So get it over with._

“Moral support,” said Peter bluntly.

Neal’s expressive blue eyes widened, then narrowed. Then the forced smile. “Well, come on in. I’m assuming you need support, ‘cause I’m fine.”

“That’s right,” agreed Peter. “This much paperwork makes me all shaky inside. Flashbacks and all that.”

Neal eyed the pizza with wary approval. “You really get Lombardi’s? Or is that just a used box you shoved Dominos into?”

Peter snorted. “You’re the only guy in the world who’d suspect me of _forging a pizza_.”

Peter watched Neal pour himself a glass of wine and fetch a beer out of the fridge. Shoulders relaxed, movements natural, not betraying the slightest hint of soreness. But there was bound to be pain, which meant Neal was hiding it. Expertly. While safe, at home, with someone he trusted, who knew all the ugly details.

This was the Neal who scared him. The sheer expertise with which he conned people, on reflex, regardless of need. But it made him feel for the Neal who’d had to learn never to show weakness or pain. That was a lesson almost always learned the hard way, for hard reasons, taught by hard people. And Neal was many things, but not hard.

He wasn’t that statue of stone he’d been posing as earlier. He was a playful, optimistic, social, passionate human being. But stone was what his world had demanded of him, and there was no challenge Neal Caffrey wasn’t up to.

Peter set the pizza down on the table, and set out freshly baked cookies, breadsticks with dipping sauce, and fruit-topped yogurt.

Neal smiled for real for the first time and handed Peter a beer. “It baffles me how much you think I eat. We having the Yankees over for a picnic or something?”

“I wish,” said Peter, returning the smile.

It was a hard line to walk as an FBI agent, betraying no vulnerability while retaining the protective compassion people needed to see when they encountered an agent of federal law enforcement. Peter didn’t even know _what_ line Neal was trying to walk. Maybe Neal didn't either.

“You don’t have to come in to work tomorrow,” said Peter. “You’re gonna be really sore, that’s more’n a valid reason to take time off.”

Neal just looked at him. _Yeah. Right. I’m gonna call in sick because someone hit me._

Peter accepted the silent rebuke, and a slice of pizza when Neal wiggled the box in front of him enticingly and teased him. ”Agent, feed thyself....”

“Neal - I’m here as a friend. Not an FBI agent, or your handler.”

Neal looked away. Peter didn’t speak or pester him.

“I’m pretty good at getting over things,” said Neal finally. “Comes with the territory.”

“I know you are,” said Peter in the gentlest voice he could muster. Neal might well not talk to him. But he could talk to Neal, make sure he knew someone cared.

“It’s that girl I’d worry about,” said Neal.

Peter nodded while he finished a bite of pizza. “She’s a civilian. She’s the category of person who gets surrounded by horrified relatives, and sympathy and therapy and support. You and I are the category expected to suck it up and stroll into the office the next morning.”

“That’s what I plan to do.” Neal picked up a slice of pizza and made a courageous effort to pretend he had an appetite.

“Being good at hiding it, and recovering from it, doesn’t mean you don’t feel pain and fear,” said Peter. “I just - want you to know you have someone safe to show that to.”

Neal looked at him with just a hint of longing.

“I know you’re tough,” said Peter. “I know you’re strong, and I know you’ve had to go through a hell of a lot on your own. You don’t have to do this one alone.”

“I really am okay,” said Neal, his face softening. His shoulders were starting to slump, the reserve giving way to a desire to trust.

“I know. But - you’re in pain.”

After a long silence, and half a cookie, Neal answered. “Yes.”

“You were punched and shocked when you were down. You were used as bait by the person in charge of you. Those are both considerable traumas.”

Neal gave him an annoyed look. There was tough Neal again, backing away from his mistake in opening up. “Do I have to play victim to get your approval? You love danger as much as I do. It’s a rush, and I like that you don’t try and hide that or moralize over it. Walking away with a grin isn’t acting.”

It was Peter’s turn to be frustrated. Neal was being deliberately obtuse. “I’d like you to stop pretending being betrayed into kidnapping and torture are a rollicking good time,” snapped Peter. “That’s not adrenaline, that’s trauma.”

Neal bit into a breadstick like it was his enemy. “Being able to to rescue a kidnapped girl....is -amazing. It’s an honor to be on your side for these. I’d _ask_ to help.”

“Would you ask to be betrayed?” asked Peter, making himself keep his voice soft. He wanted to kick himself for snapping at Neal. This was not the time to allow his frustration to show.

Neal’s shoulders sagged, and he went for more wine. His conflict was evident in the way he walked, smoothly controlled movements interspersed with letting the pain show. 

Neal was stuck in thought for a good minute when he returned. Peter broke the silence. “Talk to me. I’m here as a friend.”

Neal gave him a look that held a slight flicker of vulnerability and anxiety. It was as close as Neal got to a pleading expression. “Please don’t hand me over to other agents like that.”

Peter felt chilled. _Please_ was not a word Neal used lightly. “I’ll try. But I don’t own the FBI.”

It was the one thing he couldn’t offer any absolutes or assurances on. The FBI was a massive government bureaucracy far larger and stronger than Peter.

Neal’s eyes dulled again. “You guys own _me_. Unless you developed magical powers to bend reality? Don’t try to act like you can make it all better by coming here. I could be sent to prison for three years for screwing up someone’s coffee.”

“Neal - I’d never, ever do that,” said Peter. He pushed Neal so harshly and needled him so badly partly for the same reason Neal tested every boundary he could get his hands on. To establish that it was safe, that conflict didn’t mean prison. That power didn’t equal danger.

Neal instantly relented, and gave him a soft look that was filled with trust. “I know. I - love working with you. I feel safe with you.”

“But I let her take you.”

Neal glanced away. It was a fact, and it hurt a little.

“What I said when Ritter handed me the camera was, ‘Go ahead, rub my nose in it.’ Feel like _I_ put those bruises on you.”

He hated that Neal was being exposed to people like Fowler and Rice, hated the idea that Neal might think that was the standard for anyone who wasn’t Peter or in White Collar. “Most FBI agents are incredibly decent people. They’re educated, highly trained professionals who value life and the law and ethics.”

Neal rolled his eyes. “Slap an anklet on yourself and surrender your life and future to one at random. It’ll be fun.”

“Probably more fun than prison,” said Peter. And then kicked himself again. He was defending the FBI out of reflexive loyalty, which was the opposite of what he’d come here to do.

Neal glared at him and looked genuinely stung. “You know the nice thing about being in prison? You don’t have to dread going there all the time.”


	2. Objectified

Peter crumbled inside at the pain in Neal’s eyes. He’d gotten Neal to open up, but forgotten how vulnerable the person behind that mask could be. “Neal, I’m sorry. You - I’m trying to ease that fear, not make it worse.”

It was Neal’s own actions that put him in this situation. Neal was an unrepentant con artist who needed to be constantly reminded of his place.

He was also a rather broken person who was startled when he encountered anything resembling genuine caring, and needed to be shown that it wasn’t unreasonable to ask to be met with respect and compassion simply for existing. Neal had to be valued, in order to learn to value himself enough to stop endangering his life and freedom for every lark in his path.

Sure, the guy was used to being the center of attention, liked, lusted after, admired, and yes, cared about. When he’d visited the prison in the wake of Neal’s escape, it was plain that people cared about him. A lot of people.

But maybe there had always been a limit. Always surface-deep caring, the kind you shed when you go home to your wife at night. Had Neal ever been truly, sincerely cared about? Had he ever been valued and loved simply for his soul? Was all this frantic attention-seeking behavior an unconscious search for something he’d never had?

His very release agreement spelled out in chilling language that he was out of prison solely because of the value of his skill set to the FBI, and if they weren’t getting value out of him, they’d dispose of him. Be useful, be obedient, submit your very life to total strangers who want to “borrow” a “tool” or else.

It made a mockery of consent. FBI agents adopted a career that put their lives in danger because they wanted to. They had to fight to get hired, to make it through Quantico, to get positions as field agents. They were never, ever told to go undercover or get fired, let alone thrown in prison.

Yes, Neal wanted to do this, danger and all. He craved field work as much as any agent. But if a drunk person was legally incapable of consenting to sex, a captive of the FBI was incapable of truly consenting to having his life endangered.

Peter had just made him feel safe enough to say out loud, _No, I don’t consent. Not to working for other agents._ And then Peter had to tell him his consent was irrelevant.

How on earth was he supposed to show Neal that he was valued and safe and cared about under these conditions?

He made himself look Neal right in the eyes. “We’re using you, we’re endangering your life, and if you don’t like it, we’d be happy to throw you back in a cell. You deserve this, because you’re a convicted criminal. Criminal acts get punished, except when those criminal acts are framing you or handing you over to a killer.”

Neal looked back at him, for once at a complete loss for words. Then he walked to Peter’s side. “Stand up,” he said in a quiet voice.

Peter did, and Neal hugged him. Not a perfunctory sort of hug, but standing close, wrapping his arms around Peter, and resting his forehead against Peter’s chest.

Peter held him in a light grip, aware of just how bruised up he was. “If you sued the FBI, you’d win.”

“I don’t want revenge,” said Neal. His head sagged. _I just want this._

And maybe that was Neal Caffrey in a nutshell. He accepted that he wasn’t in a fair world, and wasn’t bent on changing it. Just on finding happiness where he could.

And Peter Burke in a nutshell, Peter had to admit to himself. He _didn’t_ accept that it wasn’t a fair world, and he _was_ bent on changing it.

“You have no idea how much I admire you,” said Neal. “For being able to say things like that.”

“And I admire you,” said Peter, putting his hands on Neal’s shoulders and holding them firmly, pushing Neal away so he could look in his eyes. “For not hating the man who arrested you, or the FBI, or ever giving up or feeling sorry for yourself. For sticking with this and looking for true North with no compass and a sun that rises in a different direction every day. For hugging me when I just told you I can’t do the one thing you asked of me.”

Neal sat down and studied the table. The half-eaten pizza. His hands. His glass. “I’ve seen - boilerplate release agreements. I know - you modified mine in a big way to let me live like a human being, and I’m sure you had to fight to get it pushed through. I know you care.”

Peter smiled, a sad smile. “Yeah, it was hard. Starting with convincing people I wasn’t mad for releasing someone who’d just escaped maximum security on a damn tracking anklet.”

He hesitated. He never wanted to tell Neal just how hard he’d had to fight to get his CI released into conditions that would enable Peter to look him in the eyes without wanting to cringe. There was a lot of ugly in that document, and in the reality of their partnership. But maybe Neal needed to hear, right now, that Peter was willing to take a stand for him.

“They - wanted you to be in jail any time you weren’t at work. I stuck a knife in that one, but - it was a close-run thing you getting your own place and not your own personal holding cell downstairs. Let alone having any kind of radius beyond your front door, or being allowed to drink, or use computers, or have contact with anyone from your past. It took hearings and meetings and arguments. I _will_ fight for you, Neal. I just - can’t pretend I’ll always win.”

Neal’s face twisted, and he held his chin up with dogged determination. “Day one at Sing Sing, after a cavity search and vaccinations and a blood draw, is sitting handcuffed to the wall in an isolation cell with no windows all day awaiting your housing assignment. Then they say you haven’t been assigned yet and you’re in holding overnight. That’s when you get stuck in a ten by ten cell with three other guys and a toilet and handed a protein bar for dinner. There’s nothing to sit or lie on that isn’t bare concrete.”

Peter grimaced, and tried to keep from letting another seething anger surface. The fury and contempt he felt for the judge who’d put a federal white collar offender in maximum security state prison. If you had to put a murderer in his place, that’s how you’d do it. Not playful, sensitive, non-violent Neal Caffrey.

Neal didn’t miss his expression. “It’s not as cruel as it sounds. It’s just a temperament test, to figure out who is and isn’t dangerous and how you interact with other inmates and handle stress. That helps determine where they house you. Regular life there isn’t bad-” he stopped dead and blinked.

“Wow. I just defended prison like you defended the FBI. Point is I’m used to being managed and controlled. Locking me in a cell when I’m not at work sounds awful to you, but I’m just surprised and grateful that you don’t.”

Peter sighed, stood up, and went to the window.

 _Be charming and tough and compliant and forgiving, because you are completely vulnerable to the whims of other people. Your only chance is to be so likable they won’t want to hurt you_. And when your whole life was keeping other people from destroying you, why on earth would you want to avoid being a criminal? Why would you care about not victimizing the society that was victimizing you?

Neal approached and wordlessly pressed a fresh beer into his hand. “Complicated is okay, Peter. Stop being so threatened by it.” And then he left for the couch, sitting with his legs up on the coffee table.

Peter mulled over the cringe-inducing story of Neal’s introduction to prison. That had been designed among other things to teach him he didn’t matter, and had no right to object to being miserable or being treated badly. In some people, it could easily have caused what he was seeing in Neal today.

The attitude that it had been severely unpleasant, but merely an understandable thing to be endured and taken in stride. It was a good attitude, a healthy and confident one, and maybe Peter was over-thinking things.

But to a normal person, that reception would have been crushing. It was clearly intended to be, to inflict hopelessness and fear and submission as a person entered a situation he was already dreading and afraid of. There should have been something of that reflected in the way Neal spoke of it.

“Neal - in prison, when they put you through that ‘temperament test’ - did you know it was a test, going in?”

Neal shook his head. “I thought it was just to intimidate, break me a little. Near the end I started figuring it out from how close they were watching us.”

“Did you complain?”

“No.”

“Get pissed?”

“No.”

“Get scared and miserable?”

“Yeah. But it wasn’t like I walked in there thinking, wow, this is gonna be fun. More like close your eyes, grit your teeth, and get through it.”

Yep. He’d _gone into that_ accepting that he was a thing to be controlled and managed. They hadn’t been the ones to instill that in him.

Reinvention. It was what Neal did. Become a world-class yacht racer and and expert on breeding beagles? Okay. A compliant and subjugated prisoner? No problem. It didn’t have to mean there was anything wrong with him, just that he was very, very good at his line of work.

There was something wrong with _that_.

Neal was quite probably the most objectified person he’d ever met. Also, the most lacking in identity. Tended to happen when you had forty or so of them.

He was Peter’s ankleted prisoner - as Neal had chillingly put it, Peter was his owner. Peter was probably the current top instrument in that objectification, and that wasn’t going to change or go away.

But it could be supplemented.

He walked up to Neal, an angle having presented itself. “How do you see me, Neal?”

“What?” Neal was puzzled by the question. “Tall, brown hair, brown eyes....”

“As a boss? A jailer? A co-worker?”

Neal’s expression wavered, really wavered, as he tried to decide how to respond.


	3. Playing with Matches

“Well, if Norman Rockwell produced after-school-special cartoons, and one very enthusiastic yellow lab wagged its tail a lot and was an FBI agent and stopped all the time to grab people by the sleeve and lecture them on truth, justice, and not playing with matches, and -”

Peter just had to laugh. He was frustrated at the diversion, but damn did he ever just _like_ Neal. “Hey now,” he protested. “Playing with matches is fun.”

Neal raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Peter. Unexpected dimensions, I like that. What’s your stance on running with scissors?”

“Amateur hour. Try sprinting with machetes.” Peter frowned. “Okay. The truth, Neal. All of it. Good, bad, or ugly.”

The lighting-fast emotions that flashed across Neal's face told Peter as much as his answer ever could. Intimidation. Uncertainty. Trust. Admiration. Fear. Reserve. Defiance. Longing. Curiosity. Suspicion. Surrender. Affection.

Neal stood and walked out on the patio, then took a deep breath and braced himself with his back against a concrete gargoyle. “As my friend. My partner, my owner, my captor, the best thing that’s ever happened to me. As a predator and a safe haven.”

Peter pressed his face into his hands. Well - it was honesty. And pretty damn accurate, in all its incredibly touching horror.

“Okay,” said Peter, clenching his fists, determined to be just as honest. “El and I joke I adopted you. You’ve become family. You’re my responsibility. You're my partner. A prisoner in my custody, and someone I care about more than I got any clue how to figure out.”

Neal looked....emotional. Touched and worried, a sculptural monster at his back, facing off against the world and wondering whether to let Peter fight at his side. And in a flash, he decided. There was that incredibly endearing look of absolute trust. The one that moved Peter to the depths of his heart and scared the hell out of him.

If Peter wanted to reform Neal, he had to fix him. While everything else was trying to break him.

Neal was comfortable conning and swindling people because in his mind, it was all a game everyone was playing. He who steals from, takes advantage of, or outwits the other person first wins. To most criminals, anyone who took pride in honesty and not playing that game was a sucker who deserved a lesson in “the real world.” But Neal was different. Vulnerability in others brought out gentleness in him. Being cared about disarmed him. He might not have a moral compass, but he was looking for one.

Caffrey was wounded by things Peter could only guess at. Blows bounced off him, but left bruises he would never show and never surrender to. He was not a man to be reformed by prison, or threat, or punishment. If anything, his behavior was an act of constant defiance and would continue to be.

There was only one crack in Neal’s armor. He was reachable through friendship and patience and play and reassurance. He was absurdly romantic. If he learned that family really existed, that true and enduring bonds of friendship were real, and love wasn’t a game, he had a chance.

Peter cleared his throat. “At work, I value your skill and experience. I’m handling an asset and managing a prisoner. But off duty, I’m just here ‘cause I like you.”

Peter frowned. _Another masterpiece of sensitivity, Burke._ These things never sounded bad until they left his mouth. _Handling an asset? Managing a prisoner? Way to go on the not-objectifying-Neal front._

Neal was shaking his head. And there was a faint, amused smile behind his eyes. “No. You’re never off duty. And you’re never just an FBI agent. I was blown away because I was arrested by a friend who cared about me, not some asshole cop. And you’re here tonight because the FBI agent wants to reform me.”

_He’s right._

_And now he thinks I’ve been trying to both con him and reduce him back to a thing to be managed._

_I give up_.

But there was no hurt in Neal’s expression, just amused affection. “Peter. You think I’m broken because I accept the way the world is and forgive it. You think my trust in you is strange.”

Peter closed his eyes. Forgetting that Neal was an expert in the way people thought? Bad idea.

“You’re honest about who you are, you don’t filter yourself to make yourself look or sound better," said Neal. "You’re the absolute opposite of me, and that’s why I trust you. Even though I'm pretty sure one day you're gonna call me Satchmo by accident and snap a leash on me.”

Peter almost laughed out loud. "Last night? Satchmo needed to go out after I fell asleep. I jiggled a pair of handcuffs at him and snapped them on his collar before I woke up enough to realize they weren't his leash."

Neal's eyes sparkled in amusement. "Pro tip for handling this 'asset' - wiggling handcuffs at me and asking if I want to go for a walk may not be met with the excitement you're expecting."

Peter pulled out his cuffs and dangled them in front of Neal with an enticing expression. "Walkies?"

Neal did laugh out loud at that one, and immediately doubled over with a pained grimace.  He clutched his stomach and staggered. "Ow." He looked pale.

Peter lunged forward and caught his shoulders, steadying him. Neal breathed very deliberately for a minute, exhaling with a slight hiss until the pain subsided. He let part of his weight lean into Peter's grip, making no move to pull away. Peter realized he must want to be held, to have that distraction from the pain.

_Physical contact? He can’t properly consent to that either._

_Over-thinking much, Burke? He loves it. It relaxes him, and there's not much that does._

Peter put his right arm around Neal’s shoulders and pulled him tight against his side. He got a completely melted CI in return. So fast that Neal had to have been desperate for someone to hug and steady him. Neal was bruised, battered, and hurting. He felt the pain of being seen as less than human, he just buried it expertly and, unnervingly, accepted it.

"Don't hide it when you're hurting," said Peter. "Let me be there. I - care about you, Neal."

“Even like this?” asked Neal in a dry, self-deprecating tone. Like he knew he was being a burden relaxing in the support of a friend.

“Especially like this,” said Peter. “It’s when you try to keep up that damn facade 24/7 that stresses me out.”

Neal took a deep breath and let it out, relaxing deeply against Peter’s side and resting his chin on a gargoyle’s knee, his eyes half closed. “Fine. Tonight, I can use - this.”

Peter kept his arm across Neal’s back. It seemed like he needed the support. It was one of those moments when Neal looked particularly small and young. Softness against stone.

“You’re good at enduring awful things," said Peter, talking to him in a gentle voice. "I get that you’ve had to - have to - and you might as well be good at it. I’ll do my best to avoid being one of 'em. But when you’re safe, with people you trust, show you’re human. Okay?”

Neal twisted his head to the side and met Peter’s eyes. His chin didn’t leave its support, and the tiny burns on his neck reminded Peter of just how serious this was. “You were there for me today. I _am_ scared of going through something like that again without you around. I - I’m pretty sure I’m not disposable to you. To be seen as an expendable tool is - stressful.”

It was Peter’s turn to consider his words for a long time. That had made him feel so - on edge, worried, betrayed. What it must have done to Neal....

What he wanted to say sounded awfully sentimental.

_Screw it. You came to offer solace, offer it._

“Your life is precious to me, Neal.”

Neal squirmed, looked away, and finally looked at Peter in awe. Pure awe. Peter recognized that emotion. It was what he himself had felt, when a drugged and uninhibited Neal Caffrey responded to impending arrest by telling Peter he was the one person in his life he trusted. 

“You’re the one person who’s ever felt that way about me.”

And that was possibly the most heartbreaking, trusting thing a reserved person could say. If it wasn’t a con. And this just wasn’t. Neal was doing what Peter had just asked him to, showing he was human and vulnerable.

Peter contained an inward shiver. Neal trusted _hard_. In the scary, full-tilt, dedicated way he did most things. The idea of letting him down, letting him get hurt, letting him get punched and electrocuted, was even more intolerable when he saw this version of Neal. The vulnerable, sweet, human, trusting side he protected so doggedly. The other Neal could take a beating, pick himself up, and shrug it off with a grin. This Neal -

This was the man behind the front.

 


End file.
